a long time ago we used to be friends
by irnan
Summary: Four ways in which Jim Kirk's day really sucked, one in which it was downright weird, and one in which it was actually kinda really OK. K/S


_This is a disclaimer._

_AN: My brain says this title is totally wrong for the fic and has nothing to do with the actual content of the story. My gut says different, so Dandy Warhols it is. Also, there is no conceivable reason why the infamous Finnegan should have still been at the Academy when reboot!Jim was there, except for my delight in making TOS references._

**a long time ago (we used to be friends)**

According to Chris Pike, having to stop at a space station for a few days and put your ship in space dock for engine repairs is usually fun. It means shore leave for most of the crew, a chance to get away from annoying people, and restocking your private stash of alcohol.

According to Jim Kirk, it sucks ass.

First there was the paperwork. That tends to speak for itself. He's just signing off on yet another batch of reports when Yeoman Rand walks in, datapad in hand and – is she blushing?

"Tell me that's the last of it," Jim says. "Please, dear God."

Rand chuckles, rather dryly Jim thinks but he doesn't say anything. "Aye, Captain. It's the diagnostics from the communications systems, for you to review."

"All right then," Jim says, waving a hand in a way that could mean either _hand it over then_ or _put it down someplace._

But Rand does neither; instead, she clutches it so hard Jim can actually see her knuckles turn white, and bites down on her lower lip. No, correction, she chews on her lower lip, eyes darting from him to the bookshelf to her right to the datapad she's mistreating and back to Jim. She _is_ blushing, Jim thinks, and there's a sinking feeling in his stomach now. "Um. Captain. I. A bunch of us are going – I mean, will you be going to the station for shore leave?"

The last words come out in a determined rush, and Jim draws a breath, suddenly understanding. Licks at his lips without thinking, and that was a mistake, because Rand's eyes drop to his mouth and yank back up again, and yeah, it was cruel of him, even if he didn't mean to.

When he meets her eyes, the invitation there is perfectly clear. So is the nervousness, and the hope, and how old is she, anyway? A good few years younger than him. Maybe scarcely older than Chekov, which – no. Jim doesn't – even if she weren't his Yeoman. Even if he weren't –

"I'm afraid not, Yeoman," he says gently. "There's too much to do here."

There's disappointment, sure, a long swallow of it, and this time Rand's the one who licks her lips. But Jim thinks there's also a touch of relief there as well, as if she wouldn't have known what to do if he'd said yes. That just confirms his suspicions about how young she is.

Girl's got some guts, asking her Captain out like that. Even if it was in a roundabout sort of way.

He nods at her, kind but dismissive, refusing to apologise but worried he's coming across as a douche, and really, of course he's a douche, he's just turned her down. After the door slides shut behind her, Jim flings himself backwards into his chair and groans.

"Universe one, Jim Kirk nil," he says disgustedly to the empty room. "You asshole."

He gets the feeling he's going to be on this end of a number of rejections for – oh, a very long time.

He tries to concentrate on the diagnostics, really he does, but he keeps studying the sides of the datapad instead to see if Rand's fingertips actually dug into the material and pressed it out of shape, her knuckles were so white. And who told her confessing her feelings to him would be a good idea anyway, he's the Captain, everyone knows he doesn't sleep with his crew –

Jim flings himself to his feet with a groan and heads for the door. Engineering. That's a good plan. A really good plan. There's always something going on down there, and even if there's not, Scotty will have moonshine. That's just the kind of guy he is.

The ship is just about deserted, and it's strange to wander these halls and not see anyone, not pass anyone, not hear snatches of conversation or the whirr of the computer or turbolift doors or footsteps around him – not even the steady thrum of the engines themselves.

Jim doesn't like it. Nor does his girl, he's positive. She likes people. She likes her crew, and she's probably sulking that they've all gone off and left her here like a beached whale, which makes it all the more imperative that Jim get down to Engineering and take a look at her, or she'll still be irritated and mildly pissy when they finally get back out into the black. That's no way to start a voyage.

But when he reaches the lower decks he switches turbolifts so he won't have to take that musty corridor that runs alongside the cooling system when he reaches Scotty's level, the one that always smells of a butcher's shop, dead meat and artificial cold. The new route takes him past the entry to the hangar decks, and there's a bunch of ensigns in there working on the _Galileo_, if Jim's memory isn't failing him.

It isn't. Or at least, they're in there, but they're not working by any stretch of the word. Most of them are gathered around a kid in who seems to be up to the elbows in the _Galileo's_ engines while pontificating on some fascinating subject at the same time, and of course he's looking at his admirers and not at what he's doing.

Jim's mouth tightens angrily. It's Carter again. Scotty had said the boy had an unusual gift for distracting other people from their work.

He slips through the doors soundlessly and crosses the open space between them as noiselessly as he can, thinking vague thoughts of joining in the discussion until he uncomfortables them all back to work, but then he hears what Carter is actually talking about.

"… and by then she was just about screaming, right, and of course I couldn't understand a word because it wasn't even in Standard, just in Gemollian or whatever their language is called –"

"Lieutenant Uhura could tell you," one of the others says. Jim really doesn't like the emphasis he puts on the word 'tell'.

"I bet," Carter leers. Yeah, he's being transferred. As soon as Jim can wrangle it, he's off the ship. "Anyway, she was begging for it, right, and so what you do is, you get a hold of her third and fourth wrists and you find her clit and give –"

That's the moment the _Galileo_ chooses to short out. Thank God. There's a bang and a hiss of gas escaping and a shower of sparks, fizzing angrily on the hangar deck floor for a few moments.

Jim sympathises. He knows how she feels.

The ensigns scatter in shock and surprise; one of them yells indignantly at Carter, lying groaning on the floor clutching his left hand: "You damn fool, you've destroyed the circuits!"

It's obviously the opportune moment for Jim to step up and complete the idiot's humiliation, and so he does, thumbs tucked into his belt and eyebrows arched.

"Among other things," he snarks, looking down at Carter. "That poor woman's sex drive, for example. Gemollian women don't have clits, Carter. Vaginal orgasm only."

Carter goes bright red. Behind Jim, someone snickers.

The _Galileo_ fizzes at them again.

Jim sighs.

"You geniuses had better take Casanova here to Sickbay," he says. "On the double!"

At least repairing the _Galileo_ is real, honest to God, blister inducing work. Not like signing off on reports or updating his Captain's log – which must be one of the most narcissistic inventions Starfleet has ever come up with.

It takes Jim three hours and a bit of help from Scotty with the dicey bits, but on the whole his Chief Engineer looks rather impressed when Jim leaves him to go upstairs and take a shower. He can't help but wonder if the other Kirk was as good at fixing things as he has always been, and puts it on the list of Things To Ask The Ambassador About, along with… that other stuff.

So, nice relaxing shower of a whole five minutes, how amazing is that, and Jim's just dragging his boots on again when he realises that there's a message come in for him, urgent and personal.

"Jim, it's your mother," Winona announces, and shit, that's her Official Starfleet Voice. Someone's in trouble. Jim just hopes it's Sam and not him. "Listen, kiddo, I'm making arrangements for the big Christmas party, you know the one, that I've decided we're having every year from now on out, and I need to know if you're bringing anyone with you when you come?"

Jim lunges across the desk and slams the tape off. "Oh, hell no!" he shouts at the screen. "No to all of it, you crazy, scheming – fuck it, Mom, I am not going to Iowa for Christmas!"

The screen doesn't answer. Jim kind of hates it.

And the worst thing is - he knows perfectly well that if Sam's going to be there, so is he. Jim knows it, Sam knows it and Winona knows it. And Winona also knows that Sammy is a total pushover these days. Jim suspects it's Aurelan's unholy influence.

Jim's a dead man. Figuratively speaking.

Oh, damn her, anyway. Why the hell does she still insist on calling him _kiddo_? How old is he, five?

Obviously, there's no way he can stay in his quarters and do paperwork after that little humiliation. And just as obviously, there's only one place to go and one thing to do.

"Dammit Jim, some of us are trying to work here," Bones growls at him when he saunters in, and Jim stops dead, putting on his extra special 'you wound me, Bones!' look.

"You wound me, Bones!" he exclaims tragically. "I haven't even said anything and already – I mean, I haven't seen you in days and days, and now you're being so awful to me – oh my God, are you _breaking_ _up_ with me?"

Over the other side of the room, Chris Chapel is shaking with silent laughter.

Bones glares at him. "Make yourself useful, Captain," he says dangerously, and even at Bones' most acidic and cutting the title never sounds hollow or a mockery, "and find out why the arrival of my med supplies has been delayed for the _third time today_. Please?"

"How's Carter?" Jim asks instead.

Bones raises an eyebrow. "Other than a total dick, you mean?"

"Other than that, yeah."

"A whiner. I sent him back to his quarters ten minutes ago. You know," and here Jim could swear his CMO looks almost wistful, "time was you and I taped people like that to the Academy flagpole with duct tape. Naked."

Jim sighs at the memory, feeling all nostalgic and fuzzy. "Good times," he agrees. "Ah well."

"He's transferring off this boat, right?" Bones says sharply.

"Naturally," Jim says easily. "I can't get rid of him before the end of this tour, which is another month, but then – pyow."

"Pyow?" Bones says disbelievingly. "_Pyow_, Jim?"

"As it were," Jim says, putting on his most dignified expression.

It never did work on Bones.

"Med supplies, Jim," Bones says dangerously, and Jim sighs.

"I knew it! I knew you didn't love me anymore. That's all right, Bones. Chris'll get me through it, won't you, Chris?"

Chapel throws a pillow at him. The fucking cheek. Just because she helped them with Finnegan and the flagpole, now she thinks she gets to throw pillows at him?

"In your dreams, Jim," she calls to him, laughing, and Jim leaves them to it, feeling much happier than he did an hour ago.

Of course, that only lasts until he finds the source of the delayed med supplies, which involves giving Scotty the conn and crossing to the space station. There it transpires that the quartermaster responsible for organising the transportation of Bones' not inconsiderable order (Jim suspects there's a few bottles of brandy or bourbon in that mass of cellophane and Styrofoam, but that's all right, he's the one who drinks most of it anyway) is ill with a fever, which usually translates to _got the clap from this hot girl in the bar_ in Jim's experience, and his replacement is not just an idiot, but an idiot who is easily bullied.

In short, everyone and their fucking grandmother have been getting their supplies loaded except for Jim, because they've been here to yell at the poor kid while he was repairing the shuttle and dreaming up scathing and utterly soul destroying speeches to reply to his mother's message with.

Jim takes one look at the kid, and pours on the charm.

Twenty minutes later, Bones has his supplies and the kid has had a lesson in developing self confidence from an absolute master of that delicate art. Jim's rather pleased with himself.

And then Sulu comms him.

"_Enterprise_ to Captain Kirk."

"Kirk here. How we doin'?"

"Not so great. Schedule change."

"OK?"

"For the fourth time this afternoon."

"You what?"

"I've had four different messages from Commander Whicher here assigning us four different slots for leaving space dock, each one later than the last. Either his memory sucks, or his secretary does."

Jim sighs. He just can't get a break, can he? Not even for a minute.

"All right, Sulu, I'm on the station now, I'll take care of it."

"Aye, sir." And then, because they're Sulu and Jim and Sulu saved his life right before Jim jumped into the forming event horizon of a black hole to save him in turn, the helmsman says wryly, "Good luck, Jim," and signs off.

Jim collars a passing ensign and gets directions to Commander Whicher's office from her, which turns out to be about six miles and several intervening decks away, and by the time Jim gets there his feet hurt, dammit.

The Yeoman at the door buzzes him through, and for a moment Jim thinks he's walked into a fire. Then he realises it's cigar smoke.

Tomorrow morning, and indeed for just about the rest of his life, Jim will not be able to remember how he went from 'clerical error with the assignment of the leaving slots' to 'play or stay, Kirk!', i.e. a table full of Starfleet captains, a rather intoxicated Commander Whicher, and a game of Texas hold 'em.

It's karma. Obviously. Very very bad karma. Probably the other Kirk's fault. Yet another thing to ask The Ambassador about.

Jim draws up a chair, gets dealt in, and proceeds to whup all of their asses, because he's Jim Kirk and that's what he does. He refuses the subsequent offers of wine, women and song in order to stagger back to his girl as fast as he can while carrying the following: one mysterious, rather ancient looking wooden chest with a rusted padlock hanging off it, a datachip holding three hundred back issues of _Empire_ film magazine starting about a hundred years ago, a baseball bat, a leather jacket, and written confirmation that they do, in fact, have the leaving slot tomorrow afternoon at thirteen-hundred, standard Terran timekeeping.

He'd cheer, but the damn baseball bat keeps trying to get away from him.

Jim almost falls into his quarters only five minutes late instead of the dreaded ten, drops his burden with an almighty clatter, and shouts out "Honey, I'm home!" before realising that the place is empty and no one's set foot in it since he left to go see Bones this afternoon.

Jim stands in the middle of his cabin, feeling forlorn and puzzled. Then he goes to take yet another shower, because that chest is not just old but also seriously filthy.

Half an hour later, his rooms are still empty but for him. Jim takes a moment to indulge in the feeling of being an utter fool, a gullible idiot and a naïve little girl.

And then he sits down and does the rest of the damn paperwork.

It's some time after that that Spock's hand on his shoulder wakes him up from where he was sprawled, dozing rather muzzily, across his desk.

"I apologise for my delay, Captain," Spock says. "Mr. Scott requested my aid in Engineering. He mentioned you had been busy," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Busy?" Jim says. "Busy! It's been the day from hell, Spock." There's a silence, and then he adds, almost angrily, "I thought you weren't coming."

Spock's head tilts to one side and his eyebrow slides up and his fingers tighten on Jim's shoulder, almost imperceptibly. "A most illogical assumption, Jim," he says softly.

Jim lets him tug him out of his chair and towards the bed, stripping down to boxers as they go, and really, he shouldn't be yawning in the face of all that gorgeous pale skin, but he just can't stop himself.

They fall into bed, and Jim tucks himself around Spock with a sort of wriggle-twist that might be called a snuggle if anyone but Jim Kirk had made it, and there's blessed, heavy, sleepy silence for several minutes, until Spock, sounding far too awake for Jim's taste, turns his head a little and asks, with what might be an edge of perplexity in his tone, "Jim, where did you acquire that chest?"

Jim chuckles into his shoulder. "Won it in a poker game," he says, and even though his eyes are closed and his face is pressed to Spock's warm skin, he can see the irritated twitch of Spock's eyebrow.


End file.
